


Taste like the Ocean

by dawnstruck



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, First Time, Gen, M/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, meeting later in life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3926962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You think you're the first one who's ever approached me with an indecent proposal?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste like the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this during class today, without any specific concept in mind, but that usually works best for me, so I'm quite happy how this turned out. I have several unfinished bits about those two sitting around, but haven't published anything in a while, and I'm grateful for getting to write something more creative and vague.  
> Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I had fun writing!

In LA, it's forever hot and stifling, the air like a thick blanket that settles over everyone and everything, suffocating any urge to move, to talk, to think.

The A/C makes it bearable, but not exactly better. Still, after three years of living here, Aomine is almost used to the weather.

What he'll never get used to is all the glitzy parties, the champagne, and the smalltalk. He came to America for basketball, not for constant socializing.

At least this time, it's for a good cause. A charity event of some sort, though those are always so alike he's never even sure what they are being so humanitarian about. Especially since everyone's jewelry here could possible save a small African country from starvation. So he's let his agent handle how much to donate because he doesn't really care. He's never been in it for the money anyway.

He's surrounded by faces he vaguely recognizes from billboards. His knowledge about Hollywood's elite is limited, despite the fact that some people apparently consider him to be part of it. His ex-girlfriend had been some up and coming starlet, now allegedly making a career in soap operas. At least that's what his agent mentioned. Aomine never got the hang of social media either.

He writes the occasional email to his parents, and if it weren't for some serious nagging from Satsuki's side he wouldn't even bother doing that.

 

He's tossed away his suit jacket, not really caring where it ends up or whether he'll find it again. The paps got enough photos for the night, and he's done his job of advertising whatever designer he is wearing.

A caterer passes by, offering another drink, making Aomine wonder whether he should just say to hell with it and get a little drunk.

That's when he sees him.

The man has slipped out onto the balcony where the air is just starting to cool down with the darkness of night. It's still too hot by far, though, and the balcony is otherwise deserted. He doesn't seem to mind, however, seems to have deliberately sought out the solitude.

His back is leaning against the balustrade, elbows propped up and shoulders lax. He's wearing a silk blazer, pale blue and perfectly tailored, surely sticky with sweat. His hair is silky, too, and wisps over his forehead in the barely-there breeze. It's an unusual shade of blonde, sun-bleached highlights and all. Unusual because he is obviously Asian, too.

Aomine feels an immediate sense of kinship, but their nationality has nothing to do with it.

Instead, he and this guy have the same sort of face – young and unlined and handsome, but most of all simply _bored_.

The same look of ennui that has been staring back at Aomine from the mirror since he was fifteen, is now reflected here on a stranger's face.

 

Aomine is intrigued.

Before he's even made a conscious decision to move, he's already on the balcony, leaving the subdued chattering of the other party guests behind him.

The change from air conditioning to early dusk washes over him in one unpleasant rush, but he doesn't really notice. He's got no smooth pick-up line, no battle plan, but by the time the stranger looks up, the words are already on his tongue.

“Spend the night with me,” he says in Japanese and with more excitement than he's felt since middle school.

The other man blinks at him, all large and pretty eyes, and for a moment Aomine wonders whether he doesn't actually speak Japanese.

Then a slow smile spreads over the stranger's lips, and it's bleak and ugly and condescending, and Aomine has never been more aroused.

“You think you're the first one who's ever approached me with an indecent proposal?” he asks. He's got a nice voice, smooth where Aomine's is gravely, but they got the same disinterested lilt to it.

“I'm sure I'm not,” Aomine replies with a shrug, knowing that in a society where incomes are high and inhibitions low a man like this must be fighting them off with a stick and this same cruel smile, “But I'm the first one you're actually considering saying yes to.”

At that, a tiny crack breaks the facade, and a startled little laugh escapes.

“Do you know who I am,” the man says, less of a question and more of a reproach.

“Some model probably,” Aomine guesses, “Don't really care.”

“I'm Kise Ryouta,” the man tells him sickly sweet as if that name should ring a bell, “And who do I have the misfortune of talking to?”

“Aomine Daiki,” he answers and sidles closer, not at all deterred by the cold attitude. Kise does not inch away, sizing him up thoughtfully, but not quite curiously.

“Hm,” he hums in mild contemplation, “Athlete?”

“NBA,” Aomine responds shortly, for once disinclined to boast.

“Ah,” a careless nod, “I'm not really into sports. Or men, for that matter."

“Neither am I,” Aomine admits bluntly, “I don't want to get you into bed.

“Well,” he amends, “Not necessarily.”

Kise blows out a small breath between his teeth, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, “Then what do you want?”

“Take you for a drive,” Aomine decides spontaneously, “Go to the beach. Somewhere where we can be alone.”

“Pff,” Kise huffs again, “You don't waste any time, do you? How about you get me a drink first?”

“No,” Aomine shakes his head, “I want you sober.”

“Maybe I can't stand you when I'm sober,” Kise points out.

“Then you would've walked away the moment I opened my mouth,” Aomine counters, “So. Let's ditch these idiots and get out of here. I know a good pizza joint.”

Another derisive laugh, but this tíme it's somehow simply _more_ , “You want me to go get pizza with you when I could be chatting up directors and producers for another million dollar job?”

“Pizza and orgasms,” Aomine corrects dryly.

“Then, chatting up some wannabe models who sure as hell give better head that some bi-curious basketball idiot.”

Aomine snorts, “But I'm more interesting than some big-bossomed bimbo.”

“Hm,” Kise's gaze swipes away and over the city lights, “I get the feeling you're already half in love with me.”

“Maybe I am.”

At that, Kise's head whips around and finally, fucking finally Aomine knows that he's got him.

“Let's go,” he says with a sharp grin, turning around with the certainty that Kise Ryouta will follow.

 

They leave the party, with Kise making excuses to various people of import, using a flourish of pretty words and cute faces. His laugh is light and clear as a small bell, a sound that makes others turn their heads and want to join in, enamoured.

Aomine has never heard anything more fake, and as he stands by he buries his hands in his pockets, trying not let on how ridiculously amused he is by all this.

Outside, they ignore the lurking paps and get into Aomine's sports car, revving the engine like a warning to back off.

The drive to the pizza place and then the beach is silent, only interrupted as Aomine calls ahead to place their order, while Kise looks out of the window, city lights flashing by in regular intervals. It's not a tense silence, but not comfortable either. Electric, maybe. Anticipatory.

When he finds a parking spot near the promenade, Aomine shucks off his shoes and socks, grabs the warm carton with the pizza in it, and climbs ouf ot the car. Again, he doesn't wait for Kise, just marches away with a destination already in mind.

A moment later, the door on the passenger side opens and slams shut again, followed by the near silent sound of bare feet on asphalt.

Aomine grins to himself, but doesn't say anything, just points his key over his shoulder and locks the car with the tell-tale beep.

There are other people aroud, but it's dark enough that no one recognizes or even pays any attention to them. And it's a good thing, too, because Aomine is not up for giving autographs tonight and quickly loses his temper when cornered.

A short walk takes them further away from the road and Aomine chooses a secluded spot where they are sheltered from curious gazes, the sea stretching out in front of them, melting into the night sky, lavish and wild.

Most of the time, you can't really see the stars in big cities like this, light pollution and all that, but the glowing pinpricks litter above the ocean like distant fairy lights.

Together they drop down into the cool sand, knees drawn up and just watching the waves.

 

For the first time since they left, Kise makes a sound, just a content little humming noise. He tilts his head back, letting the salty air waft about his nose, ruffling his hair.

“I grew up in Tokyo,” he sighs, “But sometimes all the people here just get too much.”

“I'm from Toyko, too,” Aomine mentions off-handedly. There's another moment of meaningful silence between them, the appreciation of the fact that they never met throughout the years they spent in their hometown, but on some off-chance they did in this metropole on the other side of the world.

“You come here often,” Kise observes mildly and Aomine gives a low grunt.

“No people,” he echoes Kise's earlier sentiment, “No fans, no agents, no expectations.”

“But food,” Kise trills happily and attacks the pizza that is sitting between them, prompty stuffing a slice into his mouth.

There's nothing like pizza after midnight, and together they polish it off in record time. Kise is not delicate about it, not like he probably would be in different company. Instead, he's all pinched and greasy fingers, tomato sauce caught in the corners of his mouth.

Aomine never thought that someone chewing with their mouth open in his presence would make him feel this special.

“Ah,” Kise notices when they are done, looking at his sticky hands, “I should wash up.”

Then he's already awkwardly rolling up his slacks, exposing pale, skinny ankles, and stalking towards the sea.

Aomine watches as he cleans his hands and then just splashes about in the water. He looks like an overgrown child then, none of the blank boredom or the well-practised charm Aomine had witnessed before.

Getting to his feet himself, Aomine brushes the dry sand off his ass and follows Kise into the waves.

“Have you ever seen the hotaru-ika?” Kise asks, his eyes on the seaweed between his toes.

Aomine gives a curt nod, “Glowing jellyfish, right?”

“They are so pretty,” Kise muses, “And they struggle so much. But so many of them just get washed up on the shore and die. And yet, there is such beauty in their death.”

“That's very macabre,” Aomine notes dryly.

“I think it's romantic,” Kise objects.

“Dead jellyfish,” Aomine deadpants, “Romantic. Right.”

And still he cannot help but wonder whether maybe Kise identifies with these jellyfish, glowing and gorgeous, with no one really caring about their eventual fate.

“You know what I think is romantic?” he asks and before Kise can answer, Aomine has already tackled him.

Kise goes down with a shrill yell that is cut short when he gets a mouthful of dirty salt water. He splutters, and Aomine laughs, but doesn't let go. It feels a bit like Teiko, with Kuroko and Satsuki and simple joy in life.

“-awful,” Kise gasps, shoving at him with angry tears in his eyes, “You're awful, Aominecchi. Is this your idea of a nice night out?”

“This is my idea of getting to see you in a wet shirt,” Aomine replies easily, not even blinking at the unexpected nickname, but settling a big hand on Kise's chest, his thumb deliberately brushing a nipple through the now sheer fabric.

“Idiot,” Kise complains and, with a suprising amount of strength, submerges Aomine's head in retaliance.

Despite Kise's petulance, they remain like this, allowing the waves to gently tug at their clothes.

After a while, though, Aomine can feel the cold creep into his bones.

“C'mon,” he says, getting up and offering Kise a hand, “Let's go.”

“Ugh,” Kise groans, soaking from head to toe. Then he makes a distressed little noise and reaches into his pocket to pull out his waterlogged phone.

“I'll buy you a new one,” Aomine wards off all complaints.

Kise just huffs, “You better have towels in your car.”

 

Courtesy of his sports bag, Aomine does have towels and a clean set of clothes, too, but doesn't bother with offering the latter. They strip down and climb into the car in nothing but their damp underwear, heedless of the leather seats.

Kise doesn't ask where they are going, but he can probably guess anyway.

This time, the ride is different, more relaxed, and Kise doesn't even ask before he simply turns on the radio and cranks it up, finding a song he likes and starting to sing.

He's quite good at it, even though he's not trying too hard, not trying to show off, so Aomine isn't annoyed, even finds himself humming along.

A laugh steals into Kise's voice when he catches Aomine actually joining in on the chorus.

It's a silly pop song that, on any other occasion, Aomine would never even admit to having heard before, but this situation is different, different in the way that Kise has rolled the window down and is stretching his arm outside as if trying to catch the night in his splayed fingers.

Soon enough, though, they are there, Kise tumbling out of the car and jumping on the spot as if to ward off the not-quite cold, the hairs on his arms raising. The apartment building looms over them in metal and glass and concrete, one of many similar giants in this area.

Aomine's got a loft on the sixteenth fucking floor, but ignoring the sceptical looks the doorman sports at their half-naked appearance, Kise just grabs Aomine's hand before he can make for the elevator.

“Let's take the stairs,” Kise laughs and Aomine lets himself be dragged along, even though they will both regret the climb.

By the time they reach the upmost floor, they are sweating and gasping, stitches in their sides, despite the fact that they are both in peak physical condition. Kise had said that he wasn't into sports but it's obvious that he still practices it, lean and muscled, and a smoothness to his movement that makes everything seem effortless and playful.

“We're here,” Aomine huffs finally, teetering down the hallway, and Kise is breathless with laughter and exhaustion.

“You don't fucking say,” he manages anyway, because the only stairs left would lead up to the roof. Aomine can't quite believe that this is the same guy who, mere two hours ago, had seemed bored enough to jump off a balcony.

He fumbles for his keys and tries to unlock the door, leaning heavily against it as though he were drunk instead of elated. But it's three in the morning, on a night he had deemed wasted, and it's nowhere near over yet.

Kise slams into him from behind and Aomine grunts, but then the lock finally clicks and they both stumble into the apartment.

The lights are out and Aomine's hand reaches blindly for the switch.

“You want a shower?” he asks over his shoulder, feeling vaguely gross with sand and sweat.

“No,” Kise says and kisses him.

Technique-wise, it's not the best kiss Aomine has ever received, but certainly one of the more enthusiastic ones. Kise's got him by the waistband of his shorts and tugs him closer, and mostly he's laughing instead of kissing, but Aomine isn't far behind.

“Weirdo,” he says and pulls away a little, a grin making the left corner of his mouth inch up, “You taste like the ocean.”

“Now whose fault is that?” Kise says and laughs again.

In that moment, Aomine thinks that he wants to know all of Kise's secrets. Wants to be one of them.

 

They fall into bed and into each other.

The mechanics of gay sex are far from their minds, but thoughts are not what count anyway.

Aomine licks across Kise's salty skin, all scents of deodorant and hairspray washed away, and there's no mistaking that Kise is a man, the way he pushes and melts against Aomine by turns, always somewhat undecided whether he wants to take the lead or just sink into the pillows and enjoy himself, fickle like the tides under the influence of the moon.

So they roll around, atop and underneath each other, till they are both dizzy with the motion and each other's company.

Kise is still laughing when he comes, more quietly now and subdued, his breath hitching, his hips stuttering up against Aomine is tiny searching waves. And Aomine engulfes him like the night did with the sea, covering him with his entire body until he, too, lets go.

They stay in this position, Kise nestled in his arms and not even complaining about the weight. When Aomine starts pawing at his sweaty bangs, he makes a noise somewhere between satisfaction and disgruntlement, but his hair is already messed up anyway, so eventually he just leans into the caress and closes his eyes.

 

When the sun creeps in through the window front, dyeing the sheets in a soft orange glow, Aomine doesn't know whether he had fallen asleep at some point. Everything feels like a dream anyway.

Kise is still cuddled up against him, and usually Aomine doesn't really do cuddling, but he usually he doesn't do men either, or maniacs, or people whom the paps will make a fuzz about when they find out about a potential relationship.

There are probably already a bunch of incriminating pictures all over the internet, of him and Kise leaving the party early, leaving the party together. Maybe the doorman has contacted the tabloids, selling the story of Aomine Daiki showing up with an equally naked Kise Ryouta, in the wee hours of the morning and obviously high on _something_.

And yet, depite all of that, all of the trouble that this whole insane idea will doubtlessly drag along, Aomine doesn't even mind.

Next to him, Kise nudges his nose into his armpit.

“Mm,” he mumbles, probably less sleepy than he pretends to be, “I want breakfast.”

“Then go and make some,” Aomine tells him bluntly, his voice a little rough with singing and laughing and moaning.

Kise cracks an eye open, a cranky look on his face.

“Are you always going to be like this?” he wants to know, pouting accusingly.

But Aomine just grins down at him, “Why don't you find out?”

 

In LA, it's forever hot and stifling.

The presence of the ocean makes it just a little more pleasant.

**Author's Note:**

> Because love/lust at first sight!Aomine is always a good thing in my book. :D  
> Kudos and reviews are always appreciated.


End file.
